Quick Links - Poets.org

follow poets.org

Search form

The Academy of American Poets is the largest membership-based nonprofit organization fostering an appreciation for contemporary poetry and supporting American poets. For over three generations, the Academy has connected millions of people to great poetry through programs such as National Poetry Month, the largest literary celebration in the world; Poets.org, the Academy’s popular website; American Poets, a biannual literary journal; and an annual series of poetry readings and special events. Since its founding, the Academy has awarded more money to poets than any other organization.

sign up

occasions

Born in 1950, Ray Young Bear was raised on the Meskwaki (Red Earth People) Settlement in central Iowa. He graduated high school in 1969, the year he began publishing poetry, and attended Pomona College from 1969 to 1971. He has also attended the University of Iowa, Grinnell College, Northern Iowa University and Iowa State University.

His books of poetry include Manifestation Wolverine: The Collected Poetry of Ray Young Bear (Open Road Media, 2015), The Rock Island Hiking Club (University of Iowa Press, 2001), The Invisible Musician (Holy Cow! Press, 1990), Winter of the Salamander: The Keeper of Importance (Harper & Row, 1980), and Waiting to be Fed (Graywolf Press, 1975).

Young Bear is also the author of Black Eagle Child (University of Iowa Press, 1992) and Remnants of the First Earth (Grove Press, 1998), which received the Ruth Suckow Award as an outstanding work of fiction about Iowa.

Young Bear has received numerous honors and awards, including a 2016 American Book Award, a fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts, and an honorary doctorate in letters from Luther College, Decorah, Iowa. He has taught creative writing and Native American literature at The Institute of American Indian Art, Eastern Washington University, Meskwaki Elementary School, the University of Iowa, and at Iowa State University. Young Bear and his wife, Stella, also co-founded the Woodland Singers and Dancers.

Among his accomplishments, Young Bear cherishes the ability to speak and write in his first language. He presently lives on tribally owned land that was established by his maternal grandfather, a hereditary Chief, in 1856.

The Aura of the Blue Flower That is a Goddess

Immediately after the two brothers entered
The Seafood Shoppe with their wide-eyed wives
and extra-brown complexioned stepchildren,
the shrimp scampi sauce suddenly altered
its taste to bitter dishsoap. It took a moment
to realize the notorious twosome were "carrying"
medicines, and that I was most likely the next
target in the supernatural shooting gallery.
It was yet another stab at my precious
shadow, ne no ke we ni, the one who
always Stands First, wildly unafraid
but vulnerable.
This placement of time, this chance meeting
at Long John Silver's had already been discussed
over the burning flower clusters, approved,
and scheduled for a divine assassination.
What an ideal place to invisibly send forth
a petraglyph thorn to the sensitive
and unsuspecting instep I thought.
Out of fear I had to spit out the masticated
crustacean into the folded Dutch bandana.
I signalled Selene with my eyes:
something is terribly wrong here.
Even in the old stories, ke ta-a ji mo na ni,
my grandmother recited there was always
disagreement, jealousy, and animosity
between supernatural deities. That
actuality for humans, me to se na ni wa ki,
however was everpresent. It didn't conclude
as an impasse that gave us the weather,
the four seasons, the stars, sun, and moon.
Everything that was held together.
Unfortunately,
there could only be one re-creation
of earth. If it was requested in the aura
of the blue flower that I die,
the aura would make sure I die. . .
Later, the invisible thorn--when removed by
resident-physicians (paying back their medical
loans)--would transform into some unidentifiable
protoplasm and continue to hide in the more
sensitive, cancer-attracting parts of the fish-
eater.
In the mythical darkness that would follow
the stories the luminescent mantle of the kerosene
lamp would aptly remind me of stars who cooled
down in pre-arranged peace--to quietly wait
and glow.

Ray Young Bear

by this poet

today a truckcarrying a Tomahawkmissile reportedly tippedover on the interstate somewherelabelled an “unarmed warhead”its fabulous smoke had to beplacated with priestlikewords being murmured by yucaa-wielding